Peat Moss

By Sam Moe

She’s asking me about the molds
Growing into a patch on my chest
Maybe my heart is failing, the blue
Looks more like a flower or an
Expensive porcelain bowl a mother
Would buy, I wonder if she would
Be interested in my chest mold, if
She’d like to see if I can grow more
Circles of rough, what if one day I
Awake to a weeping willow in the
Center of my lungs, yet aren’t I now
Feeding, taking, drinking, loving in
My limbs, hands like anchors drag
Out silt, cuddle with ecosystems of
Ambition, until I am drained of my
Purpose, until I am too much want, 
Until I am empty on an evening where
There is nothing left for me to sleep in,
No one left to provide the oxygen, gone
Are forest banisters, I am just another
Parasite who cannot even feed rose
Bushes, no one will drink from caveats
Between my roots, I thought this was
Survival mode, guess it’s unsurvival
Of the moss evenings, guess my lungs 
Peel apart like popsicle wrappers,
Though my elbows are blue July ice
I am being consumed by red ants, I am
Blowing away in a wind, I am no longer
Beautiful or comfortable, I’m just warm
And scattered, not yet strong enough to
Reach the clouds.

Sam Moe (she/her) is a writer of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. She is pursuing a PhD in creative writing at Illinois State University. Her work has appeared in Overheard Lit Mag, Cypress Press, The Shore, and others. She received an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing in June, 2021.